


Hidden Scars

by MirrorandImage



Category: Doctor Strange (2016)
Genre: Aftermath, Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2020-05-19 13:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19357747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorandImage/pseuds/MirrorandImage
Summary: Battles leave scars. Some that can't be seen. Wong and the Cloak try to determine Strange's after the events of the movie.





	Hidden Scars

_Girls! We run this mother-_

_Girls! We run this mother-_

Even with Beyoncé in his ears Wong could not relax. One Sanctum destroyed, two horribly damaged, scores of sorcerers slaughtered by Kaecilius and his followers, several of the dimensional barriers damaged not only by Dormammu but by that new sorcerer Strange screwing around with the Eye of Agamotto. Kamar-Taj felt like a shell of what it was supposed to be, many students promoted prematurely to fill in the gaps that had been left. There would be consequences for this, Wong was certain, and not even his favorite artist could soothe his concerns. He skittered between London and Hong Kong, mitigating the damage and helping develop plans for rebuilding. Some spells had only been known by the Ancient One, and with her gone… His new role as librarian was now paramount - he needed to find the books and spells necessary to repair the damage. And the loss of Mordo…

That perhaps hurt the worst of all. To walk away from that which had saved him, Mordo had turned his back not only on the Ancient One, but all of the friends and students he had collected over the years. One of the most ardent followers, loyal to a fault and upright and rigid in his following of the teachings. Wong wasn't sure they could ever replace that loss...

Strange, he left alone. The man had shown remarkable skill with magic when he was still learning, and creativity with this latest calamity that had been averted. Terrible humor aside, he was a fast learner and, with so many higher-ranking sorcerers missing or dead, the only logical choice to fix the New York Sanctum - the one that had suffered the least damage and was subsequently _almost_ in his ability to mend.

That Wong liked the idea of finding a challenge the doctor might actually struggle with was also a simple pleasure. It made him smile after the man had so disrespectfully taken books from the library without his permission.

Strange had at first balked at being in charge of the New York Sanctorum, a whiny protest already on his lips before Wong hit him with his flattest stare. The former surgeon - for the first time since Wong met him - cut himself off and simply nodded, a curious look in his eyes as he turned, the Cloak of Levitation twirling in excitement, and going back to the Sanctum.

At this moment, Wong was moving his hands through an intricate pattern, pulling power from the Vishanti to weave a web of power around the London location, renewing the seals and spells that had been left standing while others would search the damage to reverse engineer what spells had been broken. With a universal gesture of Return to Center, Wong ended his magic and opened his eyes, seeing the patterns he had created fade into purple wisps into the various realities the seals had been created.

It was at that time something wrapped around his shoulder and spun him around. What…?

The Cloak was there, without its master, fluttering and flitting as it wrapped a corner around his wrist and began tugging.

"What is wrong?" Wong asked, confused and hesitant to leave before checking to see his work was successful.

The Cloak twisted itself into a tight circle, giving a firmer tug and making Wong take a step forward. "Is it Strange?" he asked.

The collar whisked up and down, its best impression of a nod, and tugged again. Now curious to see why the Cloak had demanded his attention, and what Strange had done now to anger such a powerful and enchanted object, Wong pulled out his sling ring and began to open a portal to the New York Sanctum. The Cloak, still wrapped around his wrist, pulled him out of the gesture and, instead of tugging, gave a firm yank, jolting Wong forward and then again, insistent that the Chinese sorcerer go along. Was a portal already open? Had Strange opened it? Wong gave in to the Cloak's demands and was half tugged through the halls of Kamar-Taj and to - indeed - an open portal to the Sanctum Sanctorum in New York.

The portal was not level, Wong had to step down into the Sanctum. Now in a different time zone, Wong quickly looked for a window to see it was late at night. The Cloak was still tugging, down the hall and to the main landing, down another hall to the living quarters. The room was still filled with the personal affects of Master Drumm, and for a moment Wong grieved at the loss of such a capable and competent caster. Another pull at his wrist and Wong turned to see Strange on the bed, flat on his back. Sleeping? Projecting? The Cloak at last let go and flew over to its chosen, spinning and twisting in what Wong could only label as anxiety, making the Chinese sorcerer step forward.

He did not see Strange's astral projection, but that did not necessarily mean it was not elsewhere, doing work. As Wong approached, however, he saw blue eyes wide open, mouth moving slowly. Tight muscles, tense frame, and beads of sweat. What was this?

Wong immediately started moving his hands, searching for Strange's astral, but a simple location spell found it locked in its proper body. He searched for any kind of tampering, the Cloak twisting and turning beside him, but he could detect no outside interference. There was no outside influence to cause Dr. Strange to be sweating on a bed in a waking coma. Wong leaned in to place a palm on the other man's forehead when he heard a dread word: Dormammu.

"Dormammu, I've come to bargain… Dormammu, I've come to bargain… Dormammu, I've come to bargain… Dormammu, I've come to bargain… Dormammu, I've come to bargain…"

Wong blinked, surprised, and looked over to the Cloak. The gold clasps flipped up and down, a shrug, followed by another anxious twist.

"Strange?" Wong asked.

No response, only, "Dormammu, I've come to bargain…"

Wong tried to get a response from the doctor for almost twenty minutes, attempts ranging from shouting to shaking, concern blooming to confusion to outright fear. He finally summoned a jug of ice water and, failing other ideas, dumped it on Strange's head.

"Ah!"

The man jolted upright, eyes wild and fevered, taking several seconds to recognize his surroundings and Wong standing over him.

A carefully manufactured scowl pressed into his mouth. "I see you do have a sense of humor," Strange said mildly.

"I see _you_ were intent on scaring me," Wong countered.

The doctor swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, the motion less than fluid as he wobbled into an unsteady balance and started walking out the room. The Cloak was still twisting in anxiety, but flew after its chosen and settled around his shoulders before spinning the former neurosurgeon around. Strange balked for a moment, tried to leave the room again, but the Cloak pulled more insistently, actually managing to drag him nearly a foot back into the room.

Strange glowered at the Cloak and offered a guarded glare at Wong. "What's this?" he demanded; and again, the cutting remark that Wong was expecting never came. No sarcasm or witty comeback, just a question that held those sentiments under the surface. Wong wasn't certain at first how to respond to this, American irreverence he had dealt with more than enough to know how to handle, but Strange's sudden self-restraint was, well, _strange_. Wong played it safe.

"You tell me."

Strange pursed his lips, the desire to leave was written all over his face but just the faintest squeeze of the Cloak told the former neurosurgeon that he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. The Cloak settled more firmly behind him, showing hands that were still shaking - not the tremors of his ruined nerves but a much stronger shaking, and Wong finally realized (at last) what was going on.

Strange caught the look, tried to duck his hands behind him, but it was too late. Wong moved forward, Strange back, but the Cloak had him trapped and Wong reached out, grabbing a shaking wrist and holding up for Strange to see. "Your medical world has a name for this," he said slowly, in simple terms. "PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

A trickle of sweat slid down Strange's bony forehead and his breath quickened. He tried to take another step back, but couldn't because of the Cloak. "Excuse me?"

"PTSD," Wong repeated, observing more things out of place. Strange was always meticulous in how he looked, combed hair, meticulous goatee. But he was more disarrayed, and not just from having awoken from the swirl of memories he'd clearly just been trapped in.

Strange only sighed, closing himself off even more, and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I'm fine, Wong," he said quietly. "Tired and busy. Most of the physical damage here has been repaired," Wong raised his brows in disbelief, "but the seals and wards are taking more research than I expected. I just can't make out where they faltered."

Well, that was the million-dollar question. Even Wong was wondering how the wards had fallen so easily to Kaecilious.

"When did you last sleep?" Wong asked pointedly.

Strange rolled his eyes. "Well, I _had_ been sleeping just now," he said, gesturing to the bed.

Wong didn't bother to point out the lie. " _Really_ sleep. Without dreams or nightmares, for a full nine hours, to the point where you woke up feeling rested?"

The sideways glance, for less than a second, said everything Wong needed to do. Strange was many things, but the worst of them was _stubborn_. Being conciliatory or concerned would not be effective to the former neurosurgeon, nor would being coy, nor understanding. The man only responded to firmness. Wong stood straight, crossed his arms, and planted his feet, relaxing his face into his preferred flat glare, and slowly started radiating expectation. Strange squirmed under the gaze, unable to move because of the Cloak, and the game began. It drew out slowly at first, their clash of wills, Strange was dead set _against_ talking about what he had been flashing back to, and Wong was dead set _on_ getting him to admit he needed help. They had played this game several times in the year they knew each other, Wong guarding the library and Strange subverting his authority. The odds were, technically, not in the sorcerer's favor, but now the Cloak was a factor in these stand offs, and that was all the advantage Wong needed.

He had expected more irreverence, a facetious comment or a roll of the eyes, a purse of the lips. He had expected Strange to try and storm off and laugh as the Cloak had its way with him. He had expected even vitriol, anger at being cornered.

Instead: a soft, weary and wary, "... Please…"

Strange took a shaky breath, looking down, utterly passive in a way Wong had never witnessed. "Please," he repeated, "I don't want to talk about it."

Something moved through Wong, surprised to see such an emotion from Strange. Begging, Wong had thought, would always be beneath the former neurosurgeon; but there was something in the man's voice, a hint of something much, much deeper, that tugged at Wong. He did not waver, however - did not offer comfort or consolation - instead kept his dark glare, silently pushing against the protest, and dared Strange to try and get out of this.

The moment stretched out, Strange still refusing to speak, hands shaking even more. Had he moved past the point of being able to speak? Wong narrowed his eyes at the other man, still looking down and tried to trigger a response. "What was the bargain?"

Strange's head snapped up, and his blue eyes were fevered again, nearly in another flashback. The Cloak was coiled tightly around its chosen, a corner reaching up and stroking his face, trying to reassure or express concern.

"Dormammu… I've come to bargain…"

The words slipped out and Wong quickly summoned another glass of ice water, giving an apologetic glance to the Cloak before flicking into the doctor's face. Again.

"Something that he said," Strange said, body tense, still halfway out of the room. "Kaecilious. The Dark Dimension exists outside of Time. I brought Time with me."

Wong frowned, tilting his head.

Strange continued. "The Eye of Agamotto, I made a time loop. Dor… it had never experienced that before, it didn't know what to do."

It took a moment for Wong to truly understand what Strange was saying, but when the implications finally hit his eyes doubled in size. A Time Loop, on someone who had never experienced time? To experience a moment over and over, having never even _conceived_ of such a thought… to be unable to understand how it was done, let alone undone… amazing! Wong saw, for the first time, how Strange might have been able to survive the fight in the New York Sanctum; raw creativity like that was a rare and precious commodity, and even half-trained Strange had enough of it to be dangerous even to someone as powerful as Kaecilious.

Now that he had started, Strange continued talking, words falling out of his mouth. "I told him I would break the loop only if he promised to never invade this dimension again. I made a bargain. Dormammu, I've come to bargain…"

Wong, better understanding the trigger now, flicked water in Strange's face before he had even finished the dread sentence, keeping him with the waking world. The man's forehead was still glistening with sweat in addition to the water, and the shaking in his hands and arms were getting more pronounced, but his eyes were (mostly) clear, and he said one sentence that made Wong's euphoria over Strange's solution ice over with horror.

"... I lost count of how many times he killed me…"

The Cloak squeezed its chosen, hugging the man close and stroking its collar along Strange's face again. He didn't squirm from the touch, actually leaned into it, and Wong saw how deeply this had damaged him. Strange had never let anyone touch or help him, always doing things himself, always so self-absorbed that he thought he only _needed_ himself. To actually accept something from the Cloak…

"Strange," Wong said, "You need to talk about this with someone."

"No, actually, I don't," the doctor rebuffed, shoulders rolling in discomfort and shrugging out of the Cloak. "I'm perfectly fine." Out from the Cloak's grasp he finally exited Master Drumm's quarters and stomped down the hall. Wong glanced at the Cloak, the red fabric twisting again but following its chosen, and Wong did the same, moving deeper into the Sanctum Sanctorum. Strange moved downstairs and into the library, pulling out some books and setting up on a double-sized table, opening two of them and looking at another.

" _Book of Vishanti_?" he read aloud. "Does anyone use normal names in sorcerer circles?" The irreverent crack fell flat, Wong couldn't accept the humor knowing the former neurosurgeon was suffering so badly - moreover, he was still reeling at the idea of dying over and over again, in that time loop, forgetting the number of times… Even just knowing what dying _felt_ like, living with it on repeat… Wong pursed his lips and grabbed the book out of the other man's hands. The Cloak settled around its chosen's shoulders, silent for now, waiting for another opportunity.

"What's wrong with you?" Wong asked, grabbing the book out of his trembling hands. "You were a doctor before all this, you lectured us on the Hippocratic Oath, and yet you would do harm to your _self_?"

Strange was offended. " _No_ ," he said indignantly. "I just can't talk about it!" He made a grab for the stolen tome but Wong stepped back, holding it away from Strange. Like a petulant child, the doctor glared and held his hand out impatiently.

Wong held his ground, only raised an eyebrow. "Why can't you talk about it?"

Strange pursed his lips. " _Because_ ," he stated.

The man was a _child_! Wong almost allowed himself to glare. Instead he waved his hands and let the books return themselves to their proper places on the shelves. He returned to his flat glare.

Strange glared right back, stubbornness still strong and the moment stretched out again. Wong felt he had the upper hand, however, as he could out-patience anyone, and Strange was already spread far too thin.

Finally, the doctor let out another exhausted sigh and just let his face sink into his scarred hands. "A lot of people died," he said quietly. "So many sorcerers, and I don't even want to think about how many people died in Hong Kong before time was reversed. I need to do everything I can to fix the Sanctum, so that it doesn't happen again."

Wong frowned, and sat down across from the neurosurgeon.

"I need to make things right for them."

The Cloak was being comforting again and Strange weakly protested.

"As a doctor, you of all people, must understand that this needs to be addressed," Wong said softly, yet firmly, as he considered possible options, staring across the table. But the doctor seemed to finally buckle under the weight of Wong's stare.

"It's not about me."

Wong raised an eyebrow, silently demanding elaboration.

"The Ancient One," Strange said softly, "it was the last thing she said to me. 'It's not about me.' And I realized just how much my life... I can't let that happen again. I need to focus on others first, go back to my Hippocratic Oath. Before…" his voice trailed off, eyes losing focus, but Wong noted it wasn't the fevered looked of a flashback. A memory? "Before I lost my sister, I was a much better person. I loved the craft, the science, the _challenge_. I loved being a _doctor_. I still do…"

Wong pulled up a seat and sat down, the Cloak lifting an edge up to curl in its chosen's lap, both of them waiting.

"She was right," he said. "I mocked her for seeing through me, but she was right. I thought it was all about me. My skill, my talent, my hands." Strange looked down to his mutilated appendages, shaking even now. "I spent years building my reputation, my prowess, trying to fill the hole my sister left. My hands saved me when they couldn't save her. With them gone, I was nothing. She was right. After failing my sister I was afraid to fail again. It wasn't until the Ancient One was dying, watching the lightning, facing her end… she told me it was okay to fail. It was okay to fall apart, let myself be less than perfect. I…

"There was no way to beat it. Dormammu… I had to plan on failing over and over. I had to let myself lose; to be okay with losing. I had to face my arrogance, rise above it. Conquer it."

"That is all very touching," Wong said, deliberately keeping his voice flat, "But you've hardly conquered it."

Strange's blue eyes snapped up, gaze hard. "What?" he demanded.

"If you had truly conquered your arrogance, you would admit needing help," Wong said, "You wouldn't suffer as a martyr, but make certain you were at your best for when the hard times came. Dormammu isn't the only eldritch abomination sorcerers have faced, and that will hardly be the last battle you will face. Far better, then, to heal your injuries when you can. Injuries of the mind are far more dangerous for us than for others, because it takes great mental acuity to perform our duties. Unless you want to go through dying again."

It was, perhaps, cruel, what Wong said, but Strange was not a man to be coddled, to have his hand held and told everything would be okay. He was a man who needed everything spelled out for him in simple terms, and Wong was beginning to realize it was best to use his ego against him. Putting him in his place seemed to be the best way to get him to learn. The Ancient One had done it by leaving him on the Himalayas, Mordo had done it by continuously beating him senseless, and Wong had done it by never once reacting to the man's terrible jokes. Now, with the other two gone, Wong had to hit Strange harder, make him understand just what he was doing.

The cloak flapped it's clasps again, nodding in agreement and letting its edges flutter. Strange looked at the magic item indignantly, then turned his glare to Wong. The sorcerer held the former neurosurgeon's gaze.

"Well?" Wong asked. "Will you let your ego kill you? Or will you get the help you need?"

Strange worked his jaw, pursed his lips. "It's not like there are therapists for this kind of thing," he said, petulant, trying to win the argument.

Wong smiled, savoring his victory. "In that, you are wrong again," he said, grinning.

Strange knew with the smile he had lost the fight, but he tried to fight fate. "What? There really are magic therapists?"

Wong's smile turned even larger. Got him.

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> We've been sitting on this one since we saw the movie, had it written and sent to our beta, but it took a while to get it back as our beta had a health emergency. Everyone, please send well wishes to Tenshi, she's been through a lot in the last few months and through it all she still managed to beta this fic and get it back to us. Welcome back, Tenshi! We've missed you greatly!
> 
> For the fic itself... wow it was written so long ago we hardly remember the inspiration. It holds up well after so many months, though, so we hope you all enjoy it.


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